


precautions

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- he’s been making contact, skin on skin, this whole time to heal and mend, but has never actually felt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	precautions

  
“ _Really_ wishing I’d grabbed my jacket, now.”  
  
John’s teeth clatter a bit between the syllables and he draws his knees up closer to his chest. Sherlock shifts next to him, huffs a half smile that glints dully in the low light of the warehouse.  
  
“Always take the precaution of a good coat and a short-“  
  
“ _Short friend_ , yes, Sherlock. Cheers. How the hell are we going to get out of this?”  
  
There’s no answer, only the squeaking twist of duck-tape against skin as Sherlock becomes restless in his binds. John sighs and tips his head back against the cool of the metal wall support that they’re tied to. Simple case, the detective had claimed. Let’s just chase after these delightful looking criminals unarmed and everything will turn out just fine and _frigging dandy_.  
  
Which, to give Sherlock a tiny (miniscule) bit of credit, usually turns out okay. Or at least, doesn’t end in them being knocked out by a guy _twice_ John’s height and _ten times_ Sherlock’s weight. He remembers little after that, apart from the reassuring press of another unconscious lean frame against his own in the claustrophobic darkness.  
  
John can feel the thrum of Sherlock’s brain vibrating against his clothes. He’s glad of it; glad of the push and pull of thought process, the rushing of neurons and chemicals and pure genius _idea_ that usually keeps them alive. It means John can concentrate on other important things, like not _freezing to bloody death_.  
  
“Lestrade was on our tail, John, he won’t be far behind.”  
  
Except when did Sherlock put any amount of faith in the London Police force? John raises an incredulous eyebrow and scoffs, his breath stark and smoky in the air between them.  
  
“Um sorry, what was it you said to him last week? ‘ _You would make an excellent inspector in another life’_?”  
  
The man smirks at the memory of his own sarcastic wit and simply clears his throat. In the heavy dark John can make out the shadow of his eyes; hard, set, determined and... perhaps a smidge of actual real faith in another human being. Then it’s gone with a swift blink, and John puts it down to a trick of the light.  
  
Great, they’re screwed.  
  
Just as that lovely thought crosses his mind there is movement, the loud echoing sound of several pairs of feet heading towards them, and the metal of a knife that, thankfully, is only used to slice their bonds from the support, more tape wrapped even tighter around their wrists again for transport. Two abnormally large hands scoop John up by the arm pits and drag him roughly by the arm through several doors and corridors, into a larger room bathed in a neon-blue glow. He knows Sherlock isn’t too far away, from the drag of his fine shoes and the small _bored_ sighs drifting behind him.  
  
John’s eyes adjust and he stretches his lids against the strange light. Sherlock is stood several metres away, directly opposite with both thugs standing either side of him. They dwarf the detective in size, yet he still manages to look somehow _impossibly_ like he could take both of them with a flick of his curls.  
  
For a second he smiles at the thought, then the hollow point of a gun presses in the side of his head and John can’t help but roll his eyes. Why is he always the one with the firearm digging into his skull? So not fair.  
  
“So, who goes first?”  
  
Ah, great, an American. So someone Mycroft is after then, which is why Sherlock has been so secretive and a degree or two more dramatically mysterious than usual. And also the reason for his blatant disinterest in everything that’s happening - John hears him yawn, _loudly_ , across from him.  
  
“Oh you can do John, first, if you like. Been getting on my nerves a bit recently, always cleaning up after me, forcing me to drink his tea, telling me how much of a _brilliant_ genius I am…”  
  
John feels the metal drive a little more threateningly into his hairline, but knows it will not go off - they all love playing with Sherlock, even if they don’t really intend to. His arms shake slightly stretched behind his back, regardless. John can’t help but realise the deadliness of the weapon, knows it far too well to be as disregarding as Sherlock.  
  
And he also can’t help the way his whole body jerks instinctively towards the man, as the giant to Sherlock’s right punches him hard in the gut. That’ll be bruising already, John knows. Sherlock is tough and has a fair amount of muscle on him but he isn’t _strong_ , doesn’t eat enough to take that hammer like fist. John steadily licks his bottom lip, raises his chin, military.  
  
Sherlock bows his head at a second plummet, breathes sharp through his nose and shakes his head only once.  
  
“Violence is never the answer” Sherlock manages to sing; but the line of his lips is tight and his eyes dark and John _knows_ his plan - keep them talking, keep them interested (even if it means a broken jaw). It’s so obvious that it could work.  
  
There’s several more minutes of back and forth between Sherlock and the American man, with his gun still to John’s head. And it _is_ only minutes, but to John it feels like hours.  
  
Because each sarcastic taunt from his friend earns him another punch to the gut, a smack across the cheek with unforgiving knuckles and John can see Sherlock’s skin purpling even in the low light. It’s painful, really truly _hurts_ in the deep cavern of John’s stomach. Sherlock takes it like a pro, spits out the blood with another smooth line already on the tip of his tongue. They’ve done this before, been in this situation countless times -  
  
But neither party is _giving up_ , backing down. Usually they want to play, sure - beat Sherlock up a little for some carnal satisfaction - but normally ( _a lot sooner than this_ , John thinks) they remember how important he is, how much value he holds, that he’s Sherlock fucking Holmes and he’s worth more alive than dead.  
  
John tries to shout _Sherlock, stop!_ between the disgusting sound of bone on bone, splitting flesh, but it comes out as a gasping gulping intake of air, and he tries to move towards him but is forced back by the _click_ of a cocked gun.  
  
There’s a tense, other worldly moment, where no one moves and nothing sounds but the laboured softness of Sherlock’s breaths.  
  
Then - _finally, God, finally_ \- a bold bright alarm sounds and the room is filled with the glorious din of London’s pride and joy SWAT team bursting through the doors, maybe even through the very walls, John can’t tell and doesn’t care.  
  
He doesn’t see Sherlock again until they’re both bundled in a police car and driven back to Baker Street. The medical team had spent less than five minutes with Sherlock before adhering to his demands of _Lestrade dismiss them_ , and he’s sitting next to John with blood still under his nose. Wrapped in his trademark shock blanket that would be hilarious if not for the _undeniable rage_ surging through John’s veins.  
  
  
//  
  
  
It takes him all of three seconds to get his hands on Sherlock when they get back to 221b. John’s fingers are itching to inspect the damage, to wash and soothe and stitch. Jesus, _he’s furious_ , but there’s an overriding need to heal him, make sure he doesn’t bloody bleed to death all over the carpet.  
  
Sherlock sighs in irritation as John pushes him into one of the kitchen chairs, but he relents because his shirt _is_ actually soaked with sweat and blood from the wounds to his face and chest. Flexing his jaw he begins to unbutton his ruined clothing, as John disappears to his room briefly, then runs some water.  
  
It’s one of many unwritten rules that John knows about Sherlock, that neither of them have ever had to mention or distinguish -  
  
No medical professional can touch him, but John _can_.  
  
And John takes his duty with pride, with earnest, even though he wants to scream at him _why did you do that, why would you do that to me?_  
  
Carefully John fills a bowl with lukewarm water, tests it with the tip of his little finger and puts in a few drops of antiseptic. He sets his first aid kit out on the table next to Sherlock, draws a chair up close to sit in front of him. John dampens a cloth and grips Sherlock’s jaw a tad less delicately than he normally would, steadies his elbow on the table and quietly dabs at the crust of blood under his nose.  
  
Something static and musty dampens the air between them, the familiar press of unsaid things and pent up anger that, more often than not, irrevocably belongs to John. It’s heavy and bitter and doesn’t taste too great on his tongue as he flicks it out in concentration, wiping away the last evidence of the thug’s handy work.  
  
John tries not to notice the subtle details of Sherlock’s face, in moments like these, but it’s a helpless conquest. Of course he knows the man - the stride of his walk, the pattern his fingers drum when he’s sorting through the files in his mind - but Sherlock is constantly moving, constantly shifting, and John doesn’t often get the chance to really _look_. There are things, stupid things, that John still wants to know, needs to discover.  
  
Tonight, after this hell of a day, he finds that Sherlock is actually a bit tired, or at least his eyes are. There’s a smoky dark underneath them that isn’t completely due to a fist, a strange softness to the horizon of his lips, resigned. John learns that Sherlock’s cheeks aren’t really hollow; it’s a trick of the shadow and the skin is firm, strong as he smooths a layer of Arnica cream over the bruises.  
  
“What you did, Sherlock, it was - You know, don’t you? That it was a stupid, stupid thing to do.”  
  
Of course Sherlock knows, and he nods in concordance. John flicks his eyes up from where he’s working on Sherlock’s chest, a well-practiced ritual of cleaning and bandaging. The whispered look he receives is wordless, stale, _bored? I’ve heard this all before._  
  
“I mean, Christ, you idiot. What were you thinking? You could have - he’s nearly bloody _beaten you to death_.”  
  
John falters, then, with one hand flat against the muscle of Sherlock’s stomach and the other poised mid bandage. Breathing tight, he dips and shakes his head once, twice, squeezes his eyes shut against the stark image of Sherlock battered and bruised and cold dead on the warehouse floor.  
  
“John-“  
  
The pads of his fingers spread wide, press a bit too hard on the span of a growing bruise to Sherlock’s upper right ribs, so much that the man gasps audibly at the pressure. John can feel the ominous vibration of something dangerous in Sherlock’s skin - like the stakes are rising and there’s more to be sacrificed and John _doesn’t know why_.  
  
“Don’t ever do that again.”  
  
It’s low, barely there with his head still bowed to Sherlock’s chest, his hair lightly brushing half tended wounds. Sherlock replies with his back straight and his hands balled into fists on his knees.  
  
“John. _John_ , they had a gun to your head.”  
  
Details, really. John doesn’t care for the details right now because there’s a strange unruly mixture of frustration and rage and sadness and the overwhelming want to _undo everything_ , it’s hurting his bones.  
  
“Don’t ever do that _to me_ again.”  
  
This time his words are hitched and taught in the tracks of his throat, the bandage is somehow on the floor forgotten, John finds his vacant hand migrating to rest beside his other. It’s the most he’s ever touched Sherlock, the most he’s ever been _allowed_ to (dared to). In some way it’s different, like he’s been making contact, _skin on skin_ , this whole time to heal and mend, but has never actually _felt_ him.  
  
John realises - suddenly and unforgivingly - that he wants to _feel_ every part of Sherlock. There are things hidden in every crevice and corner of him, and John wants them for his own, to claim and protect them; from London, from thugs and criminals, _from himself_.  
  
Sherlock is processing; John can see the lines of his face even without looking, the wrinkles of gathered skin at the corners of his eyes as he tries to work through the sentimentality, tease out the emotion that he finds it so hard to reason with.  
  
“You would have done the same.”  
  
That’s very true, John won’t argue with that, can’t, but it’s not the point at all. The point - John’s fed up of spending the hours after nights like these distraught and worn out and knowing he will have to go through it a million times more. He loves the thrill, absolutely no doubt _loves it_ , but sometimes the fallout hits him too hard.  
  
“Yeah, yeah I would have. You’re right. But the difference is, Sherlock,” He draws back, closes his fingers together and slides them off Sherlock’s chest until the dull of his nails are the only point of contact. “The difference is _I know how hard it is to watch._ You, you wouldn’t care, wouldn’t have to sit here and patch me up afterwards-“  
  
“No, John-“  
  
Sherlock averts his gaze and John isn’t going to let him get away with it this time. Rough, he grips Sherlock’s sharp chin and tugs it to face him, watches a delicate spark of anger cross the man’s eyes.  
  
“Tell me I’m wrong. Look me in the eye and tell me that you could do for _me_ what I do for _you_.”  
  
John finds himself being grabbed by the shirt collar, brought so close to Sherlock’s face that he’s breathing in recycled oxygen.  
  
“You’re not wrong. Is that what you want to hear? Does that appeal enough to your ego to know that you can do something I can’t? Pathetic, John, _really_.”  
  
The sudden spite in Sherlock’s words startles John a little, so much that he loses his grip on Sherlock as the man stands quick from his seat, tears off a half hanging bandage and kicks his chair back. He paces, a blur of pale torso streaked with dark red and burgeoning purple blue.  
  
John breathes for a small moment, flexes his jaw. Smacks his hand into the bowl with almost a growl, sends it clattering across the table. A steady pool of water grows and spreads, seeps into the grooves and rings of the wood, begins to drip steadily against the lino. He stands.  
  
“You - You’re just too much, sometimes.”  
  
Sherlock laughs; a high disbelieving _venomous_ laugh, it rattles through John’s tightly closed fists, shakes through his steady legs. John rolls his lips together, watching as the man strides back and forth, flinching only with the slightest flare of his nostrils as his wounds twist and stretch. Sherlock rounds on him, takes several long purposeful steps in his direction until he’s looming, and John does not back down. Never.  
  
“So leave. You know what this is, you know how this works. If you can’t handle it, _leave_.”  
  
 _No, no no._  
  
John meets his eyes, knows there’s an ocean of loyalty betraying him, dancing stark in his irises. Sherlock bridges the acres of silence that John cannot fill, and he is thankful despite the anger and confusion crowding his head.  
  
“I can’t be that man, John, I don’t fix people. I can do a lot of things, I am _prepared_ to do a lot of things, for you. But if that’s what you want from me, then leave.”  
  
Something sinks in John’s stomach, chars his bones and makes all the blood rush to the tips of his fingers. He falters, caught between the fire charged present and the great beyond, between what has been and gone, and what is laid out before them.  
  
 _I am prepared to do a lot of things, for you._  
  
And John thinks, _feel._ I need to feel those things.  
  
“What - What exactly are you prepared to do, Sherlock, for me?”  
  
John has a strange sensation building in him, as if he isn’t breathing anymore, except he knows he is, because somehow he’s still standing, still steady in his military stance and still able to look Sherlock in the eye even though he’s slowly, terribly, crumbling. He was so angry and now he’s just - well, now he’s simply absorbing.  
  
Sherlock, mercifully, absorbs a lot quicker than him.  
  
Dirtied fingers wrap long around John’s wrist, his digits are spread and pressed flat against Sherlock’s chest, spanning the cage that keeps his heart. He swallows hard at the contrast of his own tanned hand across Sherlock’s pale marred flesh, knows that this is the best Sherlock can do, the most he can give.  
  
It’s all John needs anyway, for now.  
  
“Are you leaving, John?”  
  
He slips his hand from Sherlock’s grasp, reluctantly, because his desire to feel is beginning to override what he knows he cannot have. John turns and grabs a towel, begins to mop up the spilt water before it stains the wood completely.  
  
“Not today, no.”  
  


  


  



End file.
